


Some Kind of Violent Bliss

by SaunterVaguely



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dehumanization, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Torture, after that it's nice happy Crobby, basically every warning for Alistair, horrible demonic abusive relationship in the first chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 14:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2274000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A one-shot that turned into a two-shot. Crowley's past has left him somewhat wary of three little words, but he finds it harder and harder to avoid them around a certain hunter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Kind of Violent Bliss

**Then**

The man's soul had been in Alistair's tender clutches for nearly seventy years (far longer in Hell's particular timezone). The demon had been working away at him with fascinating results, and was looking forward to seeing what he might make of the twisted remains of the human.

  
Today, the soul was suspended by hooks above a bed of low-burning coals. He had carefully flayed all the skin from the human a few days ago, and was not allowing it to regrow- he enjoyed the crackle and pop of the fat and muscle as it cooked, the bacon smell of charred flesh. The mangled thing looked up when he approached, twitching and shuddering when he reached up to stroke the bare redness of one cheek.

  
"Hello, sweetness," he crooned, dragging his fingertips down and tearing the masseter open with his ragged fingernails. The soul gasped, lungs gleaming wetly through ribs that had been cracked and spread open with an ancient retractor. "Miss me?"

  
The soul made a gurgling sound with the remains of a tongue long since bitten through, but pressed into the demon's hand obediantly. He smiled indulgently and asked, as he did every morning, "Can you tell me your name, lambchop?"

  
There was a long pause while the soul struggled to remember the human- the man- that it had been before. Finally, raw-hamburger lips peeled back from pink-stained teeth: "It- it s-s-starts wi' an 'F'."

  
Alistair grinned and reached for his tools.

  
He spent three hours alternately prying and chipping out the man's teeth. He swept them into a small engraved silver box, placed it on a shelf among hundreds of other little boxes. He selected another one from the stacks, one carved from ivory with images of trees and serpents and tormented figures, and tipped it open: more teeth, these ones sharp and clearly not from a human mouth. He took one, holding it delicately between two fingers, and with his other hand picked up a hammer.

  
He spent another six hours hammering mismatched teeth into bloody gums, stopping frequently to yank one back out and replace it elsewhere. The man's soul didn't scream much anymore; mostly he whimpered or made tiny shuddering sounds that were sweet as summer wine. When all the teeth had been replaced, Alistair got a bit more creative.

  
At last, he stepped back and admired his work. He'd pulled the soul down from the hooks, let it drop to the rough floor and watched it crawl blindly toward him. He let it get near enough to touch the trembling, hacked-off tips of its fingers to his ankle before stepping back and crouching down.

  
"What's your name, sweetmeats? Tell me again."

  
The soul made a miserable sound of confusion.

  
"You don't know?" He asked liltingly, and the soul shook its head. "Aw, that's alright," he said, watching with delight as darkness leeched away at the remaining gleam of humanity. "I think I'll call you- Crawly. Since you look so precious when you're crawling for me."

  
The blackened soul looked up at him with red eyes. "Crowley?" It said, struggling with the word in its mouthful of strange, bloody teeth.

  
"Close enough," he replied with a shrug. He set aside the long, curved pair of bone shears he'd been using and reached out to tug absently at the collar around the nearly-a-demon's throat- made on the man's first day in Hell, leather from the skin of his own back. Alistair licked his lips at the memory of that day, the delicious sounds the man- Fergus, he'd been at the time- had made, the beautiful splintering of bone and soul as the demon had taken and taken, violated and pushed and torn and violated again. Taking a human and breaking them down, stripping them to a quivering lump of meat and rebuilding them into something useful and beautiful, something like him. It was an art, a powerful act, creating something in his image.

Feeling a swell of pride in his soon-to-be-completed masterpiece, Alistair bent his head and pried the broken soul's mouth open with his own sharp teeth, biting and tearing off its lower lip with a meaty sound. He sat back and spat the bit of flesh aside, settled down to run his fingers over the open wound.

  
"I love you," the ruined creature told him earnestly.

  
"That's right," he said, "You do."


End file.
